By The Grace of Which We Will Ken What We Need to Ken

I remember my first cup of coffee very clearly.  I was about eight and my mother made it for me with instant granules dissolved in hot water and a lot of sugar and milk.  I drank a mug of that watered down stuff every morning before school.  Be it the bitter dregs of a late-night pot at the diners I frequented in high school or the free trade, shade-grown beans ground and brewed in a French Press on my college countertop, since that first taste, coffee has become my constant companion.

 

There are few things that so consistently bring me happiness.  Black as ink, coffee has comforted me through despair, invigorated me when I was exhausted, and amused me when bored.  The first sip of the morning makes me look forward to the day.  Even in the face of dependency, coffee is a yoke I am loath to slip.

 

The history of coffee is interesting.  From its origin in Southwest Asia, coffee spread throughout the world to become among the most popular beverages and profitable crops.  It spread to Italy, throughout Europe and eventually to the United States, where during the Revolutionary War as tea prices soared, coffee became an enticing alternative.  From there, coffee became a staple of American cuisine, famously thick as mud and served in bottomless quantities. When Ian Fleming’s gourmand spy, James Bond, traveled to the US in the novel Live and Let Die, even he drank coffee with his steak dinners, because that’s just what you do here.  And we do.  Oh, we do.

 

Fingers numb, listening to the accelerated beating of my heart, I go to pour myself another cup.